When I think about myself,
I almost laugh myself to death,
My life has been one great big jok
A dance that’s walked
A song that’s spoke,

Tightly-folded bud,
I have wished you something
None of the others would:
Not the usual stuff
About being beautiful,

There is May in books forever;
May will part from Spenser never;
May’s in Milton, May’s in Prior,
May’s in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;
May’s in all the Italian books:—

The highway is full of big cars
going nowhere fast
And folks is smoking anything that
Some people wrap their lies around
And you sit wondering

All I know is a door into the dar
Outside, old axles and iron hoops
Inside, the hammered anvil’s short
The unpredictable fantail of spark
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens i

The sun has come.
The mist has gone.
We see in the distance...
our long way home.
I was always yours to have.

Abstraction is an old story with t
Granted no one but a humanist much
Then there is this wildness whereo
It should be of the pleasure of a
No tears in the writer, no tears i

Let others pray for the passenger
the dodo, the whooping crane, the
everyone must specialize
I will confine myself to a meditat
upon the giant tortoises

I know someone who kisses the way
a flower opens, but more rapidly.
Flowers are sweet. They have
short, beatific lives. They offer
much pleasure. There is

you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
they
are not.
those odd ones, not

I was a bum in San Francisco but
to go to a symphony concert along
and the music was good but somethi
audience was not
and something about the orchestra

But hey daddy I’m a fuck up now a